


I imagine death so much it feels more like a memory

by minervajeanlupin



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Angst and Feels, Canon Era, Cheating, Dark, Death, F/M, Feels, I'm projecting my feelings sorry, I'm very sorry for this, It's just his life but sad, It's just what the description says, M/M, Well sadder, all the death, all the feels, it's sad, like really sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-25
Updated: 2017-09-25
Packaged: 2019-01-05 12:07:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12189696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/minervajeanlupin/pseuds/minervajeanlupin
Summary: Five times Alexander Hamilton thought he was going to die and the one time he actually did.





	I imagine death so much it feels more like a memory

**Author's Note:**

> I'm just warning you all now, this is a lot sadder than all my other fanfics, but I hope you guys like it! I'm trying out a new style of writing, so let me know what you think. Kudos and comments make my day!

1: The first time Alexander Hamilton was sure he was going to die was when he was twelve.

He was weak and shivering, his mother clutching him protectively, whispering words meant to be comforting into his hair which was much too long, them not having enough money to be able to afford to cut it. When her grasp on him loosened, he was sure he was dead. Why else would his mother let go of him, when she had never before? It had to be him who was leaving, his mother couldn't  _ possibly  _ abandon him after all she had said, after all she had cursed his father for doing so… but for the first time in his still short life, Alex was wrong. Though he didn’t die, the outcome was so much worse.

For the week after, Alexander was numb. He didn't feel anything, too shocked and even upset that he wasn't the one to leave his cruel and unfair life. He gazed at the casket containing his mother unemotionally, her frail body almost unrecognizable from the happy, cheerful woman she used to be when he was still a child. (And yes, Alexander was still young. But he was no longer a child, having being forced to grow up much too early from the horrors he had seen.) His only sign of remorse for his mother was his fist curled in anger at how few people showed up to the funeral, at the hushed whispers of “what was going to happen to the whore’s sons.” His brother sobbed above him, his tears falling onto Alexander's hair, but he couldn't find the strength to do anything about it, to comfort his brother with meaningless words. He didn't react at all- to his mother's casket being lowered into the grave, to the drops of rain starting to fall, as though the sky was the only one weeping for the fate of the bastards, to a week later, when his brother yelped and covered his eyes too late, Alex already having seen his cousin’s blood, brought from his own hands, splattered on the steps, painting a morbid and gruesome picture.

Alexander Hamilton was thirteen when he first lost the will to live.

 

2: A wave of destruction crashed down on their already poverty-stricken town, bringing with it disease and destitution. Alexander watched in shock as his town crumbled slowly, the stench of death thick in the air. Everywhere he turned he could see corpses, fallen buildings, people frantically searching through the rubble for their loved ones before finally given up, tear tracks evident of their horrified and weary faces. He knew if it had been him there would have been no one to search for his body.

And for the first time in a long time, he was determined. He started writing frantically, on whatever bits and pieces of paper he could find, writing day and night like a madman with few, if any, breaks to ensure he didn't die from hunger or lack of sleep (not that food was appealing or his sleep undisturbed any longer). He no longer cared if he survived- he didn't care as long as his legacy did. So he wrote and wrote and wrote until his clothes were ink-stained and his hands cramped and a wild look remained almost permanently in his tired eyes. He wrote his way out of his childhood town and never looked back as the boat left, taking him further and further from the horrifying things he had witnessed much too young. But the horrors never ceased.

 

3: Alexander tried not to throw up as the overwhelming, and now overwhelmingly familiar, stench of death filled the air. He crawled away from the corpses baking in sun, flies buzzing around their bodies, towards the nearest medic he could find. His hair was now even longer and more unkempt, as he wasn't able to find the time to keep it properly groomed in the midst of a war. His eyes now had a permanent broken look to them, defeated as he witnessed the tragedies of each battles, but glimmering with slight hope when remembering all they had accomplished and all they were fighting for: they were making history, and he was goddamn well going to be a part of it. He heard someone call his name and turned around. He stretched lips slightly into something barely resembling a smile. Laurens smiled back genuinely- he always had been better at controlling his feelings than Alex. Maybe that’s why he had been able to shoot Lee without the slightest trace of remorse or regret. Alex wasn't sure he would have been able to do the same in his situation, no matter how much he hated the person. 

John swung an arm around him and helped him walk to the medic. Alex at first stiffened at the touch, unused to such affection, but melted into it after a few seconds. He wouldn’t have thought it possible to love someone so much before John. He remembered the first time he had seen John, admiring him as he argued with someone about the issue of slavery, glad that he had finally found an abolitionist even more passionate than him. Even though he knew their relationship was doomed from the start, that the exhilaration and feeling of recklessness that came when your life could end any day would soon end and they would marry how society expected them to, Alex didn't care. That day would come, but for the meantime, he was glad to just lean on John’s bloodstained coat, discussing what exactly was going to happen when- not if, they needed to stay positive or they would lose all hope- they won the war.

 

4: Alex gazed at his family, at his dearest Eliza fondly cradling their newborn son named after his father-in-law, who had accepted him into the Schuyler family without a second thought. He felt as though his chest was going to burst; he never knew it was possible for someone to be so happy. He swore he would be there for little Philip, that his childhood would be free from the terrible things Alex had to experience when so, so young. His son would never know what it would be like to stare death in the face and shakily come out unscathed. Alex promised. For the first time, he was brimming with hope and pride for the future. The war was won, everything he’s been fighting for the future generations had been resolved, and now he just had to think about protecting his little family, and not the dreams and ideals of thousands.

And then the letter came. And then Alex found out why his John hadn’t responded to the news of his son and “how much he reminded me of you John, he has the same fighting spirit!” And then Alexander shattered.

There was no way he could survive now. Sure, he had seen the deaths of so, so many, but John was different. John had been special. He had been the closest friend Alexander had, he had been one of the only constants in Alexander's trip to America and through the revolution. How could such a great man just be  _ gone?  _ A piece of him died that day, and no one, not even his beloved Eliza, would ever be able to heal it. You can't ever fully heal a broken heart after all.

 

5: Hamilton now finally knew what grief was. He stumbled through the town alone, often breaking down sobbing and trying to forget everything. He would have resorted to alcohol but he didn't want to be an even greater burden to Eliza. 

Oh, Eliza. How could he was been such an idiot? She was the greatest woman in the world and he had thrown it all away for a pitiful, scantily dressed woman and her lying, cheating husband. She deserves better. Everyone did. No one deserved to be with someone like him, especially someone as great as Eliza or Phillip.

A sob tore through his body as he sank down on a bench near the lake. It was all his fault. He had been stupid enough to throw away his entire life and legacy, and his son had been the one to pay for it. He had been the one to tell his sweet, poor, innocent,  _ dead  _ son not to shoot. He had been the one to rob his of his life, to take away from the newly formed country someone who would have blown them all away and achieved great things, far greater than his father perhaps. 

Of course he would have achieved greater things. Phillip would have never hurt a soul, while Hamilton had hurt so, so many in his lifetime. Eliza was right not to forgive him. Alexander would never forgive himself either. He was drowning, tossed back in time to the days when he first saw the hurricane, in rumors, people staring at him with distrustful eyes and calling him names he hadn't heard since the beginning, when he was still a young child that just wanted to make others happy and didn't understand how awful the world was. And now here he was, a grown man with everyone he loved seeming to die or hate him, wishing he himself has died all those years ago rather than cause all this pain.

 

+1: Alexander Hamilton stared at the man across from him. Depending on what he decided to do, this was the face of the man that would be the cause of his death or turn him into a murderer. He thought about John, how he had told him to shoot Lee or Lee would shoot him- he could sense it in his gaze and the way he stalked angrily to first position. He thought about poor, young, hotheaded Philip, who had just wanted to do the right thing and threw away his shot because of what his father told him. Then he thought about Eliza.

Oh, Eliza. He had been a burden to her all her life, first by asking her to marry someone everyone her status would look down upon, then by worrying her incessantly by refusing to come home from the war and risking his life so he could maybe be a martyr, not even thinking about the toll that could have on the unborn baby, then by working day and night and not paying nearly enough attention to his still small but quickly growing family, then by having an affair and, in maybe in the worst decision in his life, publishing every single detail of what took place until even the most vulgar of men would turn red, then by telling his son not to fire his gun and effectively sealing his death, and now here he was. Face to face with the man who had once been one of his closest friends and was now his bitterest enemy.

He thought about his life, all he achieved and all he had faced. He had lived a lot longer than he was expecting, had faced more trials and tribulations than he could have ever imagined. He had always expected he would die young and soon be forgotten, that he would fade away into obscurity until no one remembered or cared about the young, imaginative boy who had been born into unfortunate circumstances. And yet here he was, with a vast legacy behind him that would hopefully ensure people would remember his name and tell his story. This was it. This was the moment that would dictate his entire legacy.

He took a deep breath and raised his pistol to the sky.


End file.
